Never Say Die

Chapter 4

“We look for dead men?” asked the Master of Sinanju.

“That’s about the size of it,” said Remo.

“You are certain they are not gyonshi?”

Remo glanced at Chiun and saw the way his eyes had narrowed, thinking of another mission that had pitted them against an ancient Chinese vampire and a close encounter with the proverbial fate worse than death.

“The Leader is dead,” Remo said. “This is more like twins who don’t know when to quit.”

It wasn’t in Chiun’s nature to display confusion. At the moment, he was seated in the middle of the living-room carpet in their Massachusetts condominium in a perfect lotus posture, with his green kimono almost wrinkle free. If he was curious about the last comment from Remo, he concealed it well.

“Smith would now squander the talents of the Master of Sinanju on crazed forays into the cemeteries and mausoleums of this land? What is next? Goblin chasing? Leprechaun assassination? The man is an imbecile.”

“No one asked you to come,” Remo pointed out.

“I am bored,” Chiun sniffed. “Therefore, I will come.”

“Lucky me,” Remo grumbled.

“I suppose Smith wants you to slay the dead men?”

“Something like that. Along with whoever is behind the operation—whatever that is.”

Chiun pressed the back of one bony hand to the parchment skin of his forehead. “Please let it not be the fiendish Booger Man. Or that wicket harlot, the Tooth Fairy.

Remo sighed. “Can you save this for after we get to Burbank?”

In spite of himself, Chiun’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Not the home of Jay Leno?” he asked.

“Sorry, Little Father, we’re going to Burbank, Illinois,” said Remo, stifling a grin. “It’s near Chicago.”

Chiun hid his disappointment. “There is a paucity of imagination in this land,” he said, annoyed. “Were you aware that there are seven Nashvilles in America, including one in Indiana?”

“That’s probably so. The Hoosier All Jug Band knows where to meet.”

“No imagination,” Chiun repeated. “There is only one Sinanju. Only one Calcutta. One Beijing. One Tokyo. The Asian mind abhors confusion and redundancy.”

“It’s just a shame you guys don’t rule the world.”

“Indeed,” said Chiun, ignoring Remo’s note of sarcasm. “You will be going to this bogus, Leno-less Burbank, then?”

“To see the woman,” Remo told him.

“Adam-12,” Chiun said. “A mediocre substitute for Dragnet. All filmed in California. The place we will not be visiting.” The last was intended to sound like an accusation.

“You can’t blame me for that one,” Remo said. “You’re the one who jumped to conclusions.”

“And you are the one who is now a Ghostbuster. I will accompany you, but do not expect me to arouse any enthusiasm.”

“That’ll make two of us,” said Remo, getting up to pack. “The next flight to Chicago is the red-eye, but I thought we’d wait till morning. That is, if you’re sure you’re coming with me. Don’t feel you have to.”

Chiun considered it for several moments, hazel eyes closed. “I will see this imitation Burbank,” he declared at last, “though it will doubtless be a disappointment without Leno,” he quickly added.

“I liked Johnny better,” Remo said.

“Of course, but even Jay is preferable to Letterman.”

“I thought your favorite was Arsenio.”

As he left the room, he felt Chiun’s glare at his back and smiled.

Chiun muttered something as he gathered up the television remote from where it rested near his knees. As the TV blared to life, Remo stuck his head back in the room. He carried a pink toothbrush—his sole piece of luggage—in one hand.

“Aren’t you turning in?” asked Remo.

“I will be watching Leno on television,” Chiun informed him, “since you refuse me a pilgrimage to the one true Burbank.”

“Take it up with Smith, Little Father.”

“I would, but he is probably deep in planning a strategy of attack against the dreaded Loch Ness Monster,” Chiun replied.

With that he settled his robes neatly around his knees. Using his thumb on the remote control, he turned the TV up so loudly, the whole house shook.

Their flight took off from Logan International Airport ten minutes late, but made it up somehow—a tail wind, Remo guessed—and landed at O’Hare three minutes early.

Magic.

They were objects of attention on the plane and in the terminal, but that was nothing new. While Remo’s face and form were perfectly forgettable, it was unusual to see a white man, average height and weight, accompanied by an elderly Korean who was barely five feet tall. When the Korean dressed in silk, kimonos day and night, the double-take potential was increased a hundredfold. They didn’t quite stop traffic on their trek from the arrivals gate to baggage claim, but it was close.

So much for being inconspicuous.

The good news was that Remo could sense the difference between your average rubbernecker’s stare and the furtive, glances that were standard in surveillance. Checking out the crowd this morning, he saw nothing to suggest that anyone was waiting for them in the Windy City.

At least they weren’t starting with a handicap.

They had a Plymouth Sundance waiting at the Avis counter. Remo signed the forms, including overpriced insurance. The credit cards and driver’s license in his wallet bore the name of Remo Walker. It was not a whopping change from “Williams”, but it didn’t have to be, since Remo Williams shared one trait with Thomas Allen Hardy.

He was officially dead and buried.

They had reservations at a modern chain motel in Ashburn, a Chicago subdivision two miles east of Burbank. Remo took Chiun’s lone steamer trunk upstairs and checked the local telephone directory while the Master of Sinanju staked out his place in front of the TV.

Devona Price was listed, but Remo didn’t call ahead. There was no point in giving her a chance to run when he could simply show up on her doorstep and surprise her.

Sixty-two years old. That made her five years Hardy’s junior, thirty-one or thirty-two when he was put to sleep. She had been living in Nevada at the time, turned up in various directories for Reno and Las Vegas, which was no surprise. The Silver State was big on transients, chasing jobs in the casinos, restaurants and cocktail lounges, strip joints, service stations, brothels—whatever would serve to cut the mustard in a modem Wild West atmosphere complete with instant marriage, legal prostitution, no state income taxes and the infamous six-week divorce.

But she was now quite a bit older, and almost certainly retired. The twilight years were unforgiving this close to Lake Michigan, and Remo wondered what had made her leave the desert warmth behind.

Another question he would have to ask her, if he got the chance.

“I’m going now.”

“Give my best to Big Foot,” Chiun answered. He was already engrossed in a program-length commercial for something called the Psychic Pals Web. Remo left him to his educational programs.

It was twenty minutes from the motel parking lot to Burbank, driving west through morning traffic. The boundary line was marked with tasteful signs—Welcome To Burbank—but the markers were unnecessary. Anyone with eyes to see could spot the change: more trees and grass, tract houses giving way to styles with just a little more imagination. Nothing fancy, mind you—this was strictly middle-class…but tasteful. If Devona Price owned land here, she had done all right. If she was renting, Remo figured she was still two steps ahead of most unmarried women in her age bracket.

CURE’s background search had turned up nothing useful on the woman who was Remo’s first—perhaps his only—handle on the mystery of Thomas Hardy and his killer look-alikes. They had a birth certificate from Oakland, California, along with evidence that she had lived in L.A., San Diego, Phoenix, Denver, Reno and Las Vegas, once she got out on her own.

From all appearances, the long road ended here. The house on Greenbriar Drive was blue-painted stucco, on the small side—Remo guessed two bedrooms—with grass and well-kept roses out in front and an attached garage. There was a shaded porch of sorts, with ivy climbing on a trellis to the left. The storm door was constructed out of metal trim and glass, a normal wooden door behind it. Both were closed when Remo parked his Plymouth at the curb and walked up to the house. He rang the bell.

It was a wait, and a salesman might well have given up before Devona Price responded to the bell, but Remo had all day. He heard the dead bolt turn at last, and a^:short, round, gray-haired woman filled the doorway, staring at him through the storm door.

“Who’re you?”

He read her lips, but frowned and pointed to his ear, pretending that he couldn’t hear her.

She cracked the storm door to repeat the question. “Who’re you?”

“Name’s Remo Walker. Agent Walker. FBI.” The badge and ID card he showed her would have passed inspection at the Bureau’s headquarters in Washington.

“You have a warrant?” asked Devona Price.

He smiled and shook his head. “Just questions, ma’am, for now. I’d rather handle this the easy way. It’s best for all concerned.”

“What kind of questions?”

“It’s a matter of some delicacy,” Remo told her. “We can talk about it on the porch, if you insist, but privacy might be a good idea…for your sake.”

“Lemme have another look at that ID.”

Remo obliged her, waiting patiently.

“You won’t mind if I call the federal building and check you out?”

“I recommend it, ma’am,” he said, and rattled off a number. “You’ll want to ask for Special Agent Smith. He’s my supervisor.”

“Humph.” She thought a moment Shrugged. “I guess I’ll let it go. You may as well come in.”

She closed the door behind him, leaving it unlocked, and steered him toward a parlor on the right. There was a smell of citrus-scented cleanser to the house, and every inch of woodwork he could see was polished to a glossy shine. The furniture was aging well, and while the carpet had seen better days, she kept it clean. The coffee table hosted a display of blown-glass figurines: three unicorns, a smiling frog, a poodle and a wriggly shape that could have been a worm or chubby snake.

“Want coffee?” asked Devona Price. “No, ma’am. I’m fine.”

“Stop ‘ma’am’ing me, for heaven’s sake. I know how old I am. No need to rub it in.”

“No, ma—I mean, all right.”

They sat, Devona on the couch, and Remo in an easy chair that faced her from an angle, to her left. She wore a shapeless housedress, and the hem kept both knees covered, even when she crossed her legs.

“Let’s hear the questions, then,” she said. “You figure I’ve been up to something federal in my golden years?”

“Not quite. I’m looking into something that went on a while ago. Some thirty years ago, in fact.”

Devona Price was pale already, like a woman who preferred to spend her time indoors, rose garden to the contrary, but Remo saw her face lose color as he spoke.

For all that, though, her voice was firm as she replied, “I’m listening.”

“It has to do with Thomas Hardy,” Remo told her.

“Tom?” She covered fairly well, but there could be no doubt that she was shaken now. “He’s dead.”

“I’m well-aware of that.”

“You figuring to dig him up and file a few more charges, Agent Man? He paid the biggest price he could. Why can’t you just let well enough alone?”

The last thing Remo planned to do was fill her in on details of the recent murders and the mystery of Thomas Hardy’s deadly doppelgangers. If she didn’t know the story yet, there was no reason why she ever should. Conversely, if she was a part of the conspiracy, it would not help to tip his. hand.

“We’re tying up some loose ends in the files,” he told her. “There were more than twenty murder charges pending on your friend when he was executed in Nevada, back in ’65. Some of. them still aren’t technically resolved.”

“My friend?” She spoke the word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

“You claimed his body,” Remo said. “I can’t imagine that was charity extended to a total stranger.”

“Can’t you? No, I suppose you couldn’t. Ask your questions and be done with it.”

“How well did you know Thomas Hardy?”

She considered that one for a full two minutes, chewing on her lower lip with yellowed dentures. When she finally answered, it was like a woman talking to herself, debating some concern that has been preying on her mind.

“It’s past thirty years,” she said, eyes focused on a point across the room, ignoring Remo. “Don’t suppose it matters now, though some folks have long memories. Indeed they do.”

She blinked twice, turned to face him, leaning forward with arms folded. in her lap. “What kind of trouble am I looking at if I refuse to answer you?” she asked.

“There’s no statute of limitations on a homicide,” he told her truthfully. “You’re well beyond the prosecution deadline now, on any crime except for murder. Trouble is, if I don’t wrap this up the easy way, somebody may decide it’s worth grand-jury hearings. You’d be called to testify; and since you have immunity from prosecution, there’s no Fifth Amendment you can hide behind. Refuse to answer on the witness stand, and they can jail you for contempt until you change your mind or the grand jury issues its report.”

“How long is that, you think?”

“I’ve seen investigations drag on for a year or more.”

“Shit-fire! A year for clamming up?”

“And if they catch you lying, that’s a brand-new charge of perjury. It doesn’t matter when the actual events took place. We’re talking three to five on that one. Figure eighteen months inside, with good behavior, while the lawyers spend whatever money you’ve been saving for that rainy day.”

“Goddamn leeches!”

“Up to you, of course, but knowing that you can’t be charged for anything but murder—”

“Hey, I never pulled no triggers. That’s a pure-D fact.”

“Well, then?”

“Go on, then. Agent Man.”

“How well did you know Thomas Hardy?” Remo asked again.

“I never laid eyes on the man,” Devona Price informed him, putting on a tight-lipped smile.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me right. I never met him in my life.”

“You did claim Hardy’s body after he was executed, though?”

“I did.”

“And why would you do that if he was a perfect stranger?”

“No one’s perfect. Agent Man. I was a working girl in those days. Working on the streets, I mean to say. You get my drift?”

He nodded. Waited. Listening.

“I’ve no apologies to make for what I done. It wasn’t such a bad life, all around. I took my share of lumps—who doesn’t? But I saw a lot of country, too, and not just on my back in some motel room, either. I was never wired on dope and never served no time. I’m proud of that.”

“Okay.”

“Go on and judge me all you want. The fact is, I had no one lookin’ out for me but me, and I got on all right. You can believe that if you want, or blow it out your butt.”

“And Hardy?”

“I was working Reno, back in 1964 and ’65. Come winter, I’d run down to Vegas, miss the snow, then go back north in spring if I felt like it. Free and easy. Easy, anyhow. You follow me?”

“I’m listening.”

“I had my regulars, like any other girl who gives good value, for the money. Some of them were wise guys, some were businessmen. I even had some politicians on the line. State capital’s just down the road, there. Carson City. It’s a scrubby little town, compared to Reno or Lost Wages, but they do have cash to throw around. State prison’s five, six minutes from the heart of town.”

“Go on.”

‘Tm goin’, in my own good time,” she told him, chewing on her lip again. “It was in May of ’65, one of my regulars come askin’ me if I would like to make an extra-special score. I ask him what he’s got in mind, and he says nothin’ hard. There’s a guy about to buy it at the joint, he says. Some people want to claim the body for a decent funeral, but they can’t afford to have their names on paper. I assume he’s talkin’ wise guys, but it’s all the same to me. I ask how much. He tells me seven grand. I ask him does he want it gift wrapped, and he tells me never mind. That’s all.”

“You signed for Hardy’s body.”

“Right. What I was told, he had no next of kin. The state’ll cremate if nobody claims a stiff, but they prefer to let it go and save the fee.”

“And after you received the body—”

“Nope.” She stopped him cold. “I told you once, I never saw the man. That means alive or dead. I never saw him on the street, nor in a cell, nor in a box. Fact is, I never even saw the box.”

“How’s that?”

“I had instructions, Agent Man. I told the prison where to send him, and they did the rest. Somebody else picked up the tab, though I expect you’ll find my name writ on the check—if you can dig it up, that is. Won’t be my signature, of course, but close enough.”

“Where did they send him?” Remo asked.

She barked at that, a laugh of sorts. “Went to a funeral home, of course! What would you think?”

“I don’t suppose…”

“That I recall the name? Sure do. I’m not that old.”

“And it was…?”

“Cristobal,” she told him, with a smug expression on her face. “That’s Basque, in case you didn’t know. They got a lot of Basques up Carson City, way. Sheepherders when they first come over to the States, but now they’re big in restaurants, casinos, anything you want to name. One of ’em was a senator, back there a while, in tight with Ronnie Reagan. I expect you heard of him.”

“So, the mortician’s name was Cristobal.”

“That’s what I said.” She sounded huffy now, as if expecting him to contradict her. “Don’t recall his first name, and I sure as hell can’t guarantee he’s still in business. Thirty years go by, and folks move on, you know?”

“And you received the seven grand?”

“I did. The statute’s run on tax evasion, too, I do believe.”

“I’m sure it has.”

“Damn right. You know, it’s funny, now I think of it.”

“What’s that?”

“My client paid me right on time and no complaints, but looking back, I don’t believe he ever came to visit me again.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Not really. People come and go, especially in Nevada. Hell, it’s not like we were friends to keep in touch or anything.”

“Do you recall his name?”

“You won’t believe me if I tell you.”

“Try me.”

“I just called him John.”

“No last name?”

She smiled at that. “I understood he was a married man who liked variety. You follow me? Last names don’t pay the rent—they just get in the way.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Let me think about it He was probably forty then, or getting close. A little gray upstairs, but he still kept himself in shape. Hung like a horse, I can remember that. Show me that prick, and I can make a positive ID.”

He smiled. “I don’t imagine it will come to that.”

“I’m off the hook, then?”

“You’ve been very helpful,” Remo said, “and that’s how it will read in my report. We’re done.”

“All right, then. Sure you wouldn’t like some coffee for the road?”

“No, thanks. It keeps me awake while I’m working.”

“You’re a pisser, Agent Man. I’m glad to meet a Fed who’s got a sense of humor.”

“Well, the day’s still young.”

“It is, and that’s a fact.”

Devona watched him go, no longer smiling as the Plymouth pulled away. No good had ever come from digging up the past, and if there was a rare exception to the rule, Tom Hardy wouldn’t fit the bill.

Bad news, that bastard, and she didn’t have to meet him in this life to know that much. His case had been in all the papers, back in ’64 and ’65. The law had nailed him for a double contract murder, and they reckoned there were twenty-five or thirty more he pulled, before they ran him down. Tom Hardy wasn’t talking, though, and in the end it made no difference.

Dead was dead.

They couldn’t gas him twenty times, so what the hell?

The problem wasn’t Tom, though. He was history, and while Devona had no reason to believe the men who anted up to have him taken care of were alive today, much less concerned about a decades-old funeral, you never really knew. Those wise guys had long memories, some of them, handed down through Families like every scrap of information was a frigging heirloom. If they found out she was talking, even after all this time…

A sudden chill raised goosebumps on her arms and made her tremble, standing at the window, staring out into the empty street.

It was the Feds, for Christ’s sake, but she knew how those things worked. There were all kinds of leaks these days. She couldn’t turn the TV on without some story jumping out at her about an agent from the FBI or CIA who got arrested spying for the Russians, the Chinese, the syndicate.

Trust no one, and you won’t get burned.

It had been stupid, talking to the G-man, but she damn sure didn’t want to go the other route, with public hearings and the press involved. This way, at least she bought some time and gave herself a running start.

Provided that she started running soon.

Right now, for instance.

There was Sheila in Kentucky, just a cousin, but they kept in touch and got along all right. Devona could stop off down there, a few days, while she thought about her next move, got things straight inside her head.

She needed time to think, and something told her time was running out.

The house was paid for, ditto on the furniture, and she could take a while to sell it off if that was necessary. Or if things were still cool in six months or so, she might come back, pretend that nothing ever happened. Settle down again and let the good times roll.

Not many good times rolling in the golden years, though, when she thought about it. Teeth gone, thinning hair, arthritis coming on. Why run and stretch it out? she asked herself.

Because I don’t know how to quit.

It wouldn’t take her long to pack a suitcase, and the banks were open. She would leave enough in the account to make it seem like she was coming back, in case somebody thought to check. And later, if she needed what was left, the cash could be retrieved by wire. It wasn’t like the old days, when you had to do it all yourself, right on the spot.

Some things were better now, she realized.

But death was still a stone-cold drag. With a last glance out the window, she retreated toward her bedroom, anxious to be out of there and on the open road.